Laury A. Egan
Simon Says
Mommy disappeared at Easter. Simon Senior—my granddad—told me the Easter Bunny nipped off with her. Said the Bunny needed someone to paint eggs bright colors. Mommy liked to do this so I figured it was her new job. Then Simon Junior—my daddy—explained she was hired to sew flags for Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. He didn’t say where. It’s now August 1, and Mommy isn’t home.
My name is Simon III, or as everyone calls me, Third. My younger brother is Fourth, but he’s kind of dumb. Since Mommy is gone, Junior says I won’t have any more brothers or sisters. That’s fine with me. Still, I wish Mommy would come back because I get scared at night since she’s gone, wherever she went. I get scared during the day, too, except when I’m in school, which isn’t now since it’s summer. I miss Mommy telling me I’m a good boy, that what happens isn’t my fault. My daddy—Junior—says everything’s my fault. He says, “Third, you’re nothing but trouble. You were born under an evil star.”
Now I don’t know much about stars—I’m only eight—but evilness is something I understand. Evilness runs in my family—Simon to Simon—like a river of poison. I figure that one day I’ll be really evil, too, like Junior and Senior. Maybe soon.
This afternoon is hot. I’m out in the yard by myself, playing with my Matchbox cars and trucks, running them around on a dirt track under an old oak tree, making noises like trucks and cars do. The tree is so big that no grass grows underneath it. It’s cooler in the shade of its leaves, but sweat is dripping down my face and onto my arms and hands so that they’re getting reddish brown from the dirt. I’ve built some hills for my green dump truck, and once it’s climbed to the top of the pile, I fill its open box with a twig and pebble.
I’m not bothering anyone, but I’m kind of lonely. My family doesn’t allow friends or visitors, even though Mommy sometimes took me to see Petey, a neighbor, but I wasn’t supposed to tell Junior or Senior because they say we should keep away from people. We have a big yellow-and-black “No Trespassing” sign on the gate out front.
So, here I am, humming like a truck and going “eerrrkkk” when its brakes come on, being otherwise quiet, and then Fourth, who is four, brings his big gold Tonka truck outside and plops it on my hill. Well, I can tell you, this makes me mad, him being so careless.
“Get outta here!”
He looks at me with his round blue eyes—all of us Simons have blue eyes. “Why can’t I play with you?” he asks.
“Because. That’s why.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No. Don’t want anyone around.” I’m beginning to get riled like Junior and Senior.
But Fourth is stupid. He sits down and begins hauling his big Tonka truck over my neat highway system that’s designed for my small Matchbox toys. The Tonka’s fat wheels mess up everything—all the flat roads I’ve plowed with a little board.
“Cut it out!” I shout at him.
But Fourth puts his head down between his knees and doesn’t move. He starts shaking all over like a frightened rabbit. I should let him be, but I hate him like I hate myself when I act scared. Even my daddy looks that way sometimes when his father doesn’t like something he’s said or done. Daddy bows his head and stares at the floor, his shoulders going narrow like he wants to disappear. Sort of strange considering Junior is much bigger than Senior, but I guess that’s how things are.
When I see Fourth behaving like this, it’s a signal. The same signal we all show from time to time, everyone except Senior, but because his daddy died before I was born, I don’t know if he ever gave that signal to his father.
I stand up. Mommy would tell me to go cool off at the creek or in the woods, anywhere away from Fourth, but then he makes things worse.
“Third,” he whimpers, “please don’t get mad.”
The whimpering is another signal. Begging, too. I grab the little skunk by the shirt and drag him inside the house. He’s six inches shorter than I am and doesn’t put up a fight. I push him through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement.
“No, please…” he cries. “Come on. Please!”
But things are already too far along. That’s just the way it is. I unlock the wooden hatch that leads to the old coal bin. It’s empty now because we don’t use coal anymore, but it’s a place with no light and not much air and damned hot. We called this the “forget-me-hole.” All the Simons have spent time there, except perhaps Senior, who’s never told us if he did or didn’t.
I push Fourth in and shove his hands away from the edges. Then I put the hatch back on and latch it shut. I can hear Fourth crying, pleading to be let out, but it’s better that he’s in there, or worse trouble will start if I really lose my temper. I know about loose tempers since Junior, when he loses his, sometimes whacks me until I’m bloody. All things being equal, it’s safer when my daddy stuffs me inside the bin when I’m being fresh or misbehaving or he’s just sick of looking at me. If he does it when he’s too drunk to remember who’s been bad, me or Fourth, he also forgets we’re down there until the next meal. When he counts heads and some are missing, he comes to get us.
I run upstairs, feeling like I’ve swallowed rocks. I know something is wrong with me. I know something is wrong with Junior and Senior and probably with Fourth, too. Mommy was the only right person and she disappeared. I go into the bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing them hard, because dirt is one of many things that sets off Junior and Senior. I also feel better washing them after touching Fourth because he’s crowding my mind with guilt. I thought that maybe I had some of Mommy’s good blood in me, but since I just stuck Fourth in the forget-me hole, maybe I don’t. I picture what it’s like being in there, a black hell with no light, and wish I’d run off and left him by the oak tree. I sit on a chair by the table and feel sick.
I give Fourth a half hour. Compared to how long Junior and Senior usually wait, that’s a short time. When I walk downstairs, all is quiet. Fourth doesn’t say anything when I open the hatch, but as I pull him out, his eyes and nose are red from crying. I could apologize, but Simons never say they’re sorry.
Together, we return to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and pull out two cold cream sodas. Using an opener, I flick off the bottle caps.
“Here, jerk.” I hand him a bottle.
He takes it. I nod. That’s the best I can do.
Laury A. Egan
Laury A. Egan is the author of Jack & I, The Black Leopard’s Kiss & The Writer Remembers, The Psychologist’s Shadow, The Firefly, Once, Upon an Island, Wave in D Minor, Doublecrossed, Turnabout, The Swimmer, A Bittersweet Tale, The Ungodly Hour, The Outcast Oracle, Fog and Other Stories, Jenny Kidd, and Fabulous!; (poetry) Beneath the Lion’s Paw; Snow, Shadows, a Stranger; The Sea & Beyond; and Presence & Absence. Website: http://www.lauryaegan.com/ www.lauryaegan.com SocialMedia:
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